


nothing fucks with my baby (except for me)

by xeadasreign



Category: Winx Club
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Domestic, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Disputes, F/F, Married Couple, Married Life, Married Sex, Wives, also the wives have a safeword bye, brella (mentioned), driven (mentioned), oc daughter for the wives, oc kids for the other couples (mentioned), taking care of your injured wife, the main sex scene can be summarized with "my wife is a bitch and i like her so much", wlw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:47:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24721792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xeadasreign/pseuds/xeadasreign
Summary: A glimpse into the lives of Mrs. & Mrs. Sparx-Whisperia, including domestic issues, retribution sex, and loving wives making up. Oh, and Riven has to coach kids’ soccer camp. This one's got proper capitalization and everything!
Relationships: Bloom/Icy (Winx Club)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 78





	nothing fucks with my baby (except for me)

**Author's Note:**

> **Author's Note:** Happy Pride Month! I was hoping to finish this fic in May, but honestly, this works out more appropriately. This is set in some version of my human AU for the wives—where they are actually married wives. :')
> 
> The title (minus the part in parentheses hehe) comes from the song NFWMB by "fem!Hozier" as in Tumblr user raeldazla took the original song by Hozier and pitched his voice up a little to create a "wlw version" lmao. I was struggling to find a song for this fic and then that gem fell in my lap. You can find this version of the song on my Tumblr.
> 
> Here's to hoping there aren't random missing bits of text this time!
> 
>  **Usual Disclaimer:** I am a fan of, as Iginio called it, "the previous Winx Club," as in the early seasons. That is where my characterization comes from.
> 
>  **Warning:** This fic contains adult content. If you're a child, please leave now.

. . .

 **nothing fucks with my baby (except for me)** by xeadasreign

. . .

“Mom, what’s for dinner?”

That is the question that greets Icy Sparx-Whisperia when she walks through the front door of her house at eight o’clock at night. Her hair is down and sticking to her neck due to the hot July air, and though the central air coursing through their house immediately begins to lower her temperature, all she really wants to do is eat and go to bed. But instead she is faced with this: her nine-year-old daughter, Savannah, looking up at her with pretty, expectant hazel eyes, wanting to know what’s for dinner.

Icy can’t decide if she’s playing some sort of game, but her day sucked and she is not up for it.

“Sav, it’s Monday. Mama cooks during the week; you know that.”

“But she didn’t make anything and I’m hungry.”

“What?” For the first time since entering the kitchen, Icy actually takes it in: it looks exactly the same as it did when she left for work this morning. No one’s touched it to clean it, and no one’s touched it to make dinner.

She sets her purse on the counter, heels click-clacking against the hardwood floor as she walks through the kitchen and heads for the staircase in the living room. “Bloom—”

“Right here,” her wife’s voice responds.

Icy stops short and turns toward the couch. Bloom is lying there, cozied up with a blanket and the remote. A _Law and Order: SVU_ marathon is playing on the flat screen. Bloom has to watch those alone; the unrealistic way everything is always wrapped up so quickly in the fictional characters’ court cases prevents Icy from enjoying it. That and the fact she’s very meticulous about separating her professional life from her personal life.

“What is going on?” Icy asks. “Are you sick?”

“No.” Bloom tries to sit up a little and winces. She yanks on the neckline of her T-shirt so the material stretches away from her body.

“She was helping Riven get an extra net out of the supply closet, but it was tangled up with the goal posts and one of them fell and hit her shoulder,” Sav supplies helpfully.

Icy’s expression drops. The glare she sends her wife’s way is merely an echo of the _conversation_ they had last night.

Gardenia Elementary’s soccer coach had unexpectedly moved to Alaska last month due to “personal issues,” read: he’d come home early one day to his wife fucking the mailman. The summer clinic was scheduled for two weeks in mid-July, and the school didn’t have the time or the resources to find a proper replacement coach, so the PTA decided to select one of their own to temporarily fill his spot.

And in a show of just how pathetic the Gardenia school district is, they selected Riven.

To say he was less than thrilled would be an understatement. He was only on the PTA in the first place because, over time, one too many dissatisfied customers had complained about his attitude when they’d gone to his car repair shop for a tune-up, and it was starting to affect business. So, by the time both of their daughters were enrolled at the elementary school, Darcy suggested he work on his image by getting involved, showing he could be _family-friendly_. Their daughters graduated from the elementary school years ago, but they’re still in the district, so Riven is still on the board. That being said, neither of his kids ever played soccer, so Icy’s best guess is the board nominated him as a joke. That or they did it because the board _itself_ is a joke.

Anyway. The summer clinic. It was set to start today, and Bloom had waited until last night to mention to Icy she’d signed up as a parent volunteer for the first week, more specifically—as other soccer parents had already signed up for the other, less terrible roles—she’d taken the only spot that was available: assistant to the coach.

Icy promptly pointed out why that was a horrible decision. Bloom had art she needed to work on for clients (Bloom then elected to tell Icy she’d given herself a week off from work, which—you know—was just _wonderful_ for their monthly income), and more than that: she would be spending the entire day with _Riven_.

“The only thing he knows how to do is rev the engine of his little dirt bike so obnoxiously loud his and Darcy’s neighbors hate him,” Icy stated matter-of-factly. “He’ll probably fuck up all the soccer safety procedures, if he’s managed to memorize any of them at all.”

Bloom said that was all the more reason for her to go: to look out for Savannah.

And yet here they are now: Sav is fine, and Bloom is injured. And no one made dinner.

Bloom gives Icy a look of her own, tilts her head in their daughter’s direction. Message received: _Let’s talk about this later._

“Well, did you go to the doctor?” Icy asks, crossing her arms. She already knows what the answer has to be; she only asks to hear her wife say it.

“No, I just came home early, showered, and chilled out here on the couch. Darcy drove Sav home.”

Icy makes a mental note to have a _talk_ with her best friend for not telling her about any of this. Of course, Darcy would have no reason to think Bloom wouldn’t have told Icy about the injury herself, given Darcy didn’t know what went down last night. But her dumbass husband played a role in all of this, so Icy decides she should still be held somewhat responsible.

“And while you were _chilling out here on the couch_ , it didn’t occur to you to order takeout?”

“I just figured you could make something.”

Icy stares and stares and stares. _I just figured you could make something._

She takes a moment to collect herself then forces a smile and says, “Sure. What would you like, _honey_?”

Bloom tosses off her blanket and powers down the TV. “Actually, you can just make something for you and Sav. This shirt’s rubbing my shoulder the wrong way; I’m gonna go lay down upstairs.”

Icy would be no less taken aback if her wife slapped her across the face.

Bloom disappears up the staircase, and Icy turns and catches their daughter’s eye. She quickly schools her expression into something less murderous.

“Well, babe. What’ll it be?”

*

They heat up three-and-a-half-minute mac and cheese cups.

It’s not the best thing for Sav to eat when she has soccer camp all week, but there are no leftovers in the fridge, and like hell Icy was going to cook a five-course meal that wouldn’t have been ready until midnight. Past eight is bad enough. Icy is no stranger to heating up a plate of whatever Bloom made on nights she gets home at this hour, but for a nine-year-old…

This is pushing Savannah’s nighttime routine out further, which Icy takes it she will also have to facilitate tonight.

She eats without seeing or even really tasting her food. It’s moments like these where she’s mad at Bloom for legitimate things that she also gets _re_ -mad at Bloom for stupid things, like the fact she can’t have long nails anymore.

She’s in her head, so she nearly misses it when Sav throws her second tough question of the evening her way.

“Are you and Mama fighting?”

 _We will be once I get upstairs_ , Icy thinks to herself.

Out loud, she says, “No, babe, of course not.”

Sav lowers her eyes and eats another spoonful of her cheesy noodles.

*

At eight-thirty at night, Icy sends Sav to get ready for bed. While her daughter brushes her teeth and showers, Icy slips out of her heels, cleans up the kitchen to some extent, and starts in on the living room, too. That last one could easily wait until tomorrow, but she’s pissed and needs something to do with her hands, plus she doesn’t want to be in the same room as her wife until Savannah is safely asleep.

When Sav is out of the shower and dressed in her nightgown, Icy helps her dry her hair. She’s a natural brunette, but Aunt Darcy is her idol right now, so she talked her moms into allowing her to get blonde highlights “so they could be twins”. Icy would rather Sav copy her best friend than her best friend’s daughters—Raylee is as bad as Darcy was at her age when it comes to boys, and Gia loves dirt bikes almost as much as her dad.

Icy grips the hairbrush a little harder at the thought of the maroon-haired moron who is partially to blame for her shitty night and fights to keep her emotions off her face. Sav is theirs in every way but genetically, and so far, she’s shown no signs of Bloom’s temper or Icy’s rage for humanity. She and Bloom are both hoping it stays that way, so they work hard to hide their _less than stellar_ traits from their daughter.

Once Sav is in bed and _love yous_ are exchanged, Icy goes back downstairs and locks the doors for the night. The laundry room catches her attention so she peeks her head in and discovers of _course_ nothing is done. Normally Sav has chores throughout the week—Bloom made her a decorative board to keep track of them and everything—but her moms agreed to take them off the table during soccer camp.

Laundry is one of her Monday chores.

Icy digs her (short) nails into her palms while she debates whether she should: A) start a load and avoid her wife even longer, or B) say fuck it, let their laundry go undone, and go to bed and get this over with.

She decides upon A) just to give Sav some more time to fall asleep before The Confrontation goes down.

The pale-haired woman makes herself a cup of tea and sips it while she watches their clothes go through the wash cycle.

By the time they enter the spin cycle, despite her usual refusal to think about work while at home, Icy goes over her disaster of a day: she is expected to represent a client who has been accused of involvement in a scheme to steal $100,000 from his ex-employer. While he is nowhere near smart enough to be guilty, he is obnoxious enough to make Icy want to do her own head in.

It finally makes sense, why three weeks ago, Salazar gave her a little heads up about this year’s employee ranking for the annual trip. He knew Mr. Incompetent was searching for a lawyer, and he knew he wanted to stick the guy with Icy, so he planted the seed about the trip in her mind weeks in advance as an incentive for her to take the damn client when he eventually dropped the bomb on her today. But she has a better incentive he somehow still hasn’t realized.

Because as much as she wants to fight her boss on this, she also knows that winning this case could be the “in” she needs to _be_ her boss, to finally report to no one but herself on the job. That’s what she wants, it’s what she’s been working toward for years, but… This client is just so irreparably stupid she doesn’t know that her sanity can maintain a trial, let alone the strong chance of circumstantial evidence leading to declaration of a mistrial, in which case she’d potentially have to do it all over again…

Meanwhile, Bloom just has to sketch and paint, but apparently _that_ is too much to ask.

Icy mentally reprimands herself. It’s really not that she looks down on Bloom’s career, but sometimes—like tonight—she really feels like Bloom forgets that being a self-employed work-from-home artist affords her a whole hell of a lot more flexibility than Icy has as a high-stakes long-hours criminal defense attorney.

The washer _dings_ to indicate the end of the spin cycle. Icy pops their clothes in the dryer, shuts out all the lights on the first floor, and heads upstairs.

* * *

Bloom is lying on her front, topless and on top of the covers, face turned away from the door when Icy enters their bedroom at ten o’clock at night. Immediately, the pale-haired woman sucks in a breath.

The goal post hit Bloom’s shoulder, alright. It’s already discolored, bruised. It also looks like her shoulder bled a little earlier, not a deep wound, but a scrape… from where the post would’ve hit bare flesh. (Icy recalls her wife was wearing a cami this morning when getting ready for this shitshow of a day.)

Icy’s torn. On one hand, it’s Bloom’s own fault she got this injury (and Riven’s, but Icy can’t destroy him yet). On the other, it looks bad, and she knows when her wife says she did nothing but lie around on the couch, she really means she did nothing but lie around on the couch. Icy would bet anything Bloom hasn’t even taken an over-the-counter painkiller or dug out their tube of Biofreeze.

She decides she’ll catch Bloom up to speed in the self-care department after they have it out.

But it’s hard to think of fighting when there’s the rest of Bloom’s bare upper half for her to notice—the smooth expanse of her back, her lovely breasts pressed into the bed…

 _Focus_ , she tells herself, clicking the door shut. While the sight of her wife half naked and in a submissive position is tempting, Icy shoves away the feelings stirring inside her and says in a tone befitting her name, “No thanks. I’m not in the mood.”

Bloom doesn’t miss a beat, nor does she bother turning to face her wife when she responds. “You know, it is _astounding_ you’re 38 years old and still haven’t realized you’re not funny.”

Icy’s eyes flash. Under other circumstances, she would take that as a joke. Right now, it only pisses her off more.

“You know what?” She spins the lock on their door and stalks over to their bed. “I’ve changed my mind. I _am_ in the mood.” She climbs onto the mattress next to her wife, careful not to bump her shoulder, and caresses the opposite side of her body. She traces the curve of her breast, trails her fingertips over the dip in her waist, down over her hip… While her wife shivers, Icy pushes those luscious red locks back and says hotly against her ear, “I am in the mood to make my wife come on my tongue over and over again until she apologizes for not biting hers.”

*

Bloom shudders and instantly feels herself becoming wet. She can see where this is going—literally, there are visuals flickering through her mind, and she has to bite her lip to keep from whining. It should be embarrassing how on-board she is considering they’re in the midst of a fight, but Icy has a way of making her shameless. “You’d be so cruel to your wife when she’s injured?” she tries to quip, but her voice is breathy, so any power the remark could’ve held is lost.

“Yes,” Icy hisses the affirmative, both hands now tantalizingly roaming Bloom’s body. “If she deserves it. Which she does.”

Bloom gulps. Icy is pissed at her, she is not going to be kind, and _Bloom wants it_. After the day she’s had, she really wants it. Even though it’s going to be hell, it’s going to be delicious hell. Her wife is good at delivering like that.

“Go on, then.” It’s the consent she knows her wife is waiting for, but she says it like a challenge, hoping it’ll provoke her even further. “Do your worst.”

Icy chuckles and it’s this dark sound full of _promise_ that has all the blood in Bloom’s body rushing _there_. “Oh, I will.”

Almost instantaneously, Icy is at the foot of their bed and Bloom’s sweatpants and underwear are unceremoniously stripped from her lower half. Her wife roughly parts her thighs and says, “Prop yourself up on your knees for me.”

Bloom feels her pupils dilate further as she does so, as she raises her hips and puts herself on full display for her wife.

Icy makes a sound that indicates she is pleased with the view. She traces her fingers over Bloom’s trembling inner thighs. “Safeword?”

“ProsperFlare,” Bloom says, faintly amused as she always is when she thinks of the fact they really picked _that_ as their safeword.

“Good.”

And then Bloom is jolting forward, her mouth open on a surprised gasp-turned-strangled groan as her wife makes quick work of her promise and dives in with her tongue.

“ _Icy!_ ”

“Shut up and take it, _dearest_ ,” her wife says, trailing her fingertips down the backs of her thighs. “That’s what I did downstairs in front of our daughter. Remember?”

Bloom doesn’t get to respond because Icy does something with her tongue that has her pressing her face down into her pillow and moaning wantonly, which could be a problem because as Icy just said…

“Savannah—”

“Is surely out cold from her day at soccer camp. You, however…” She laughs just a little, and _fuck_ , Bloom is wetter than she already was. “I’m only just getting started with you.”

The first orgasm doesn’t take long—no surprise there—but where Icy would normally give her a minute to breathe, to calm down, where she would normally pause to kiss her wife’s thighs and play with her breasts, she keeps right on going, licking her pulsing clit hard and fast through her orgasm. Bloom claws at the marble-print sheets and muffles her swears in the pillows. Her legs try to close of their own accord, she’s so sensitive—but she knows it’s nothing compared to what’s to come.

“Ah-ah…” Icy pushes her legs apart and holds them open firmly, licks her wife from her clit to her opening where she dips her tongue inside, licks her clean of the evidence of her first of what’s sure to be many orgasms. “Be a good girl and give me easy access to that pretty, wet cunt of yours.”

The sound that tears itself from Bloom’s throat is low and guttural as her wife continues to mercilessly eat her out. The redhead’s vocabulary is quickly reduced to her wife’s name and the word _fuck_.

The second time Bloom comes, Icy reacts more like she usually would: she gives way to softer licks, to running her hands up and down her wife’s sides, and as Bloom rides out this second wave of pleasure, she’s too thankful she gets a moment to breathe to realize _this is her wife_ , after all; there’s no way this is mercy.

And it’s not. The moment Bloom’s breathing slows, Icy wraps her lips around her clit and sucks _hard_.

Bloom sees white and _screams_ as she comes a third time. Icy’s teeth graze her clit and Bloom kicks her feet desperately at the overstimulation.

Icy chuckles darkly and slaps her ass and Bloom feels it sting through every nerve ending in her body. “You’re _so_ hot when you come for me, baby. How many times did you have in mind for tonight?”

Bloom has to physically bite the tongue that got her into this situation in the first place to keep from begging her wife’s forgiveness. It’s not like it’s a big deal—they’ve both said sorry before, it’s part of any healthy relationship, and they’ve been together for nearly sixteen successful years. But Icy has reduced her to a squirming, whimpering, soaked mess, and Bloom can _feel_ how smug she is about it. It brings out her own stubbornness.

She doesn’t want to let Icy win. Not just yet.

She shakes her head violently to communicate she is _not_ surrendering.

Icy is all too delighted with her headstrong refusal. She _hmm_ s, amused, and says, “Okay then. As you wish…”

Icy takes longer on the build-up for number four, and Bloom has to wonder how much that has to do with how this angle must be killing her neck. _Small price to pay if it means punishing me, I suppose._ Her wife eats her out leisurely while her hands wander up the redhead’s sides, up to her breasts where she starts to pinch and pull and play with her nipples.

It takes longer, but it doesn’t take long.

When Bloom comes this time, she finds a litany of broken noises leaving her lips interspersed with _silence_. She’s so far gone, she’s losing sound. Her face is twisted up in pleasure and her hips undulate and even though she wants to kill her, she brings her hands down to intimately cover Icy’s wrists as her wife pinches her nipples so hard the pain feels _good_. “Icy…” Her clit is so sensitive, she wants to cry, but she doesn’t even know if she has the energy for that.

“Yes, dear?” Her tone makes it obvious she’s relishing the state she’s put the redhead in. “Something you’d like to say to me? Perhaps… ‘I’m sorry for being such a bitch to my beautiful, lovely wife’?”

Bloom shakes her head, weaker than before. She’s starting to question her own sanity.

“Very well.” She repeats her ritual of cleaning her mess while simultaneously beginning the process of turning her into one all over again. Her licks are softer this time. Still continuous, still unrelenting, but softer. Bloom wonders if this has anything to do with how she’s twitching violently every time her wife’s tongue laps at her clit—not to show her mercy, but so she can watch. _Evil, evil, evil._

Bloom’s focus is swimming. One second, she’s sure all that’s visible of her eyes are the pupils, she is so lost in lust; the next she realizes her wrists are chaffing against the bed from all the sweat pouring off her body…

She wonders what will come first: her tapping out, or her passing out.

And then, sometime later—she can’t say how much later—she’s jolted back to attention when Icy smacks her ass again, harder than before.

A cry is ripped from her throat, and she bites into the pillow this time as she realizes she’s coming again.

Icy takes her time licking her through this one, enjoying her masterpiece, her broken, quivering wife. She smacks her lips and it sounds so obscene Bloom groans indecently. “You.” Lick. “Taste.” Lick. “ _Delicious_.” She licks her long and slow and it’s this torturous euphoria, this sensational hell that’s too much, _it’s too much_.

Five. She’s had five orgasms in such a short period of time with no real breaks. Five isn’t a bad number for the two of them—on many occasions they’ve surpassed five per woman—but normally Bloom’s orgasms are interspersed with her giving her wife some of her own. Normally she has breaks.

Icy would also normally do more than just eat her out—as much as she loves to taste her, she also loves to finger her and mark her thighs—but of course her calculated, devious wife wants to prove a point: Bloom’s tongue was the reason she was in this position to begin with, so now Icy’s tongue would be her retribution.

“Pl-ease…”

“Pl-ease what?” Icy mocks before latching onto her clit and sucking hard again, except this time she’s also flicking her tongue back and forth, back and forth, and—

Bloom gasps and desperately tries to squirm away from the contact—she is so overstimulated she really _is_ going to cry—but she can’t and she can’t do six, _she can’t_ , but she’s going to if she doesn’t surrender or safeword out, and this is not something she deems safeword-worthy, so she just—

“Okayokayokay, I’m sorry for being such a bitch to my beautiful, _evil_ wife! Happy?”

Icy immediately stops, and Bloom literally _sobs_ with relief. “Hmm, I guess…”

Bloom is in such a mental fog, but she registers her wife climbing up her limp, sated body, registers her wife grabbing her chin and tilting her face up to kiss her deep… registers that she can taste herself on her wife’s tongue. She whimpers and shakes all over, and Icy laughs some more. She’s so satisfied with herself, the _terrible, glorious bitch_. Bloom loves her, she loves her wife, loves loves _loves_ her wife…

* * *

“Welcome back to the land of the living.”

Bloom stirs and her eyelashes flutter as the room comes into focus. Icy is sitting cross-legged at the foot of their bed. She’s changed out of the dress clothes she wore to work and is now in the oversized PVRIS T-shirt Bloom got her that time they saw the band in concert. Resting against her legs is a tube of Biofreeze.

“How long was I out?” Bloom sits up a little and registers their bed covers slipping off her body. Icy must’ve covered her up after she passed out.

“Ten minutes.” Her wife nods in the direction of Bloom’s nightstand. “Take your pills.”

Bloom turns her head. There’s a glass of water waiting for her, along with two pills and a small bowl of—

“Veggie straws? We’re almost out of those. Sav will be very upset if I eat the last of her favorite snack.”

They’ve been her favorite ever since _that_ time she was over at Darcy’s two years ago. It was the day after Raylee got three days of out-of-school suspension for being caught with weed— _Riven’s_ weed. Darcy decided “everyone” in the house had to switch to a different kind of organic habit, read: crunching on veggie straws. Bloom knew, though, that Darcy had really just confiscated her husband’s weed for herself, reasoning to him that _she_ wasn’t the irresponsible one their daughter stole it from.

Riven stewed for a month.

“Sav will get over it,” Icy says. “You didn’t eat dinner; you have to eat something. But first—pills.”

Bloom scrubs a hand down her face and carefully pushes herself the rest of the way up into a sitting position. She takes up the glass of water in one hand. In the other, she examines the white capsules with the red lettering.

“Are these supposed to relax my muscles? Because I really don’t think any medicine can top what you just did to me.”

Icy half-smiles, half-smirks. “While I don’t doubt that, _take your damn pills_.”

Bloom does as she’s told then goes ahead and finishes her glass of water—she’s rather _dehydrated_ after tonight’s events. She sets the empty glass aside and selects a yellow veggie straw.

Icy is quiet and observant while her wife eats. Bloom’s stomach warms at the knowledge that Icy is showing her concern now, even though things haven’t been the most civil between them for the past twenty-four hours.

When Bloom is done, Icy directs her to lie down on her front again so she can apply the Biofreeze.

Bloom repositions herself and adjusts the bed covers so they only conceal her lower half. She is gathering her hair over her shoulder when she feels Icy run her fingertips over her injury very, very gently. And then she tenderly presses her lips to it. Bloom shivers.

“I’ll kill him,” Icy whispers against her skin, and Bloom can feel it, the protective drive behind her wife’s words.

“Don’t,” she says, her voice shaky. “You’ll create problems for Savannah. Not to mention Darcy might be a _tad_ upset with you, seeing as he’s her husband and all.”

“She’d get over it,” Icy says irreverently.

Bloom knows what’s coming. “Baby…”

“She could do so much better. I’ll never understand what she sees in him…”

Apparently Icy knows just as well as Bloom how long she could go on _that_ tangent for because she shakes her head, snaps open the cap of the Biofreeze, and says, “Brace yourself—this’ll be cold.”

*

Bloom gasps when the lotion makes contact with her skin. Icy is gentle-careful as her fingers spread it out on her wife’s wounded shoulder blade, barely pressing down to rub it in. She applies more pressure to the rest of her: her good shoulder, the small of her back, her hips…

Bloom moans in earnest as Icy massages the lotion into her body, and it’s not even meant to be sexual, but it’s a great reminder of the fact Icy is so wet it’s ridiculous, and she will be getting no relief tonight.

That’s okay, though; her baby needs her.

“So,” Icy says. “As fun as it was to hear you apologize just to get me to stop eating you out, we should probably have a _real_ conversation about what happened.”

“Yeah,” Bloom agrees, her voice infliction sluggish from the massage her wife is giving her. “We probably should.”

“You make dinner during the week; I make dinner on the weekends. It’s been like this for ages. If you didn’t want to cook tonight, you should have talked to me about it. But I’m guessing you chose not to because you wanted to avoid me learning I was right about your little volunteer project for as long as you possibly could.”

“You weren’t right,” Bloom disputes.

Icy’s hands pause for a moment. She inhale-exhales and resumes her ministrations. “I said Riven probably wouldn’t have any of the safety procedures memorized—”

“Well, duh, Icy, he’s _Riven_. That doesn’t make you right about saying I shouldn’t go.”

“And what part of getting injured makes you think going was the right decision?”

“Think of how it would look to the other parents if neither of us helped out.”

“Bloom, I’m not sure who you think you married, but I don’t give a fuck what _other parents_ think of us.”

“Think about how it would impact Savannah. She’s the only kid on the team with two moms.”

“So?”

“ _So_ , it could be detrimental to her if the other parents don’t like us. Helping out shows we’re good people who care about our daughter.”

Icy goes quiet as she tries to process her wife’s point of view. Her first instinct is to say she’s sure there are plenty of soccer parents who feel no need to help out—because they have work or because they flat-out don’t want to—but she supposes Bloom has a point in that those other pairs of parents don’t consist of two women.

People don’t care as much as they used to, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t still a stigma. Icy has never given a damn what other people think of her, nor has she ever shared the obsession with labels this new wave of same sex attracted individuals raised by the Internet has—she’s never seen the appeal, never felt the need to _call_ herself anything—so it’s foreign to put herself in this headspace where her entire identity is reduced to what “kind” of sex she’s having.

But this isn’t about what people think of her, not really. It’s about what they’ll think of Savannah by extension. It’s about whether they’ll allow their kids to be friends with Savannah, whether they’ll let their kids come over to Savannah’s house, all influenced by what they think of her parents. It’s not fair, but what the hell is?

“Okay…” Icy acknowledges. “I see your point. Still, it would’ve been _awesome_ if you’d run the whole ‘taking a week off work’ thing by me before you did it. You know, if we could’ve had a mature discussion about it like partners who respect each other and don’t just make financially-impacting decisions without consulting each other.”

They’re really not tight on money, but Icy knows better than to take their stability for granted. If they start getting lackadaisical about their income when it’s not a true emergency, they’re just asking for trouble in the future.

“And,” Icy adds before her wife can say anything, kneading the lotion into the junction between her wife’s neck and good shoulder, “Salazar told me there’s a good chance I’ll win the trip this year. It’s to the Bahamas, and that’d be _so_ nice for us, but I know if that’s going to happen, I have to give my all at work. If I’m giving my job 110%, I expect the same from you.”

Bloom concedes rather quickly. “Okay, I apologize for not consulting you, but I knew you would’ve said no.”

“You’re forgiven, Savannah.”

Bloom playfully glares at her wife over her shoulder. “Ha ha. Speaking of not consulting each other about mutually-affecting things, how long have you known about the trip?”

Icy glances to the side. “A while…”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well it’s not like you wouldn’t have found out eventually. Also, the trip wouldn’t hurt our finances; it’s paid for by the company.”

“Point remaining: you never tell me anything about your work.”

Icy goes for her go-to response which she’s said a million times before. “Professional life—”

“—personal life boundaries,” Bloom finishes with her, because she really has said it a million times before. “I know. By the way, _that_ is part of why I didn’t text you today.” And then her voice infliction becomes sarcastic, but Icy doesn’t miss the wounded truth within her words. “I wanted to tell my wife I was at home alone in pain, but I didn’t want to _disrupt her boundary_.”

Icy feels a pang go through her chest, but before she can say anything, Bloom tries to backtrack.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said it like that. You know I just don’t really get the whole ‘separating your home life from your work life’ thing because I work from home.”

Icy tamps down on the urge to tell Bloom she is sure plenty of people who work from home suck less at separating their shit than she does.

“You can always tell me if you’re hurt,” Icy says quietly.

Bloom sounds defeated. “You were already mad about the volunteer thing. You would’ve been _really_ mad if I texted you at work to say, ‘Hey babe, I got injured doing that thing you didn’t want me to do.’”

She’s right so Icy doesn’t say anything. She’s finished with the lotion so she leans back against her portion of their pillows and stares at the ceiling.

“You wanna know about work?”

Bloom blinks, puzzled, then raises her eyebrows in surprise. She doesn’t say anything, probably because she doesn’t want her wife to change her mind.

So Icy tells her. She tells her about Irreparably Dumb Client and the circumstantial case from hell. She vents until she’s gotten it all out of her system and she actually feels significantly lighter.

“So, yeah,” she concludes. “Today sucked.”

Bloom frowns and caresses her hand. “Oh, baby…”

“And then to come home to no dinner, no _takeout_ , even, on top of your attitude…”

Bloom casts her eyes down and bites her lip.

Icy grins suddenly. “However. It was _just_ the catalyst I needed to, uh…” She trails her fingers down her wife’s bare skin. “ _Take out_ my aggression.”

Bloom shivers at the new memory, her aqua eyes darkening just a tad. “Really, though, baby, if it’s gonna stress you out this much, maybe you should drop the case.”

“No can do. This case, despite the major pain in my ass it already is and will continue to be, is my key to career independence. Sticking with this case is also our ticket to the Bahamas. A whole week, just you and me… Sav can stay at Darcy’s, and you can spend our time in paradise getting back at me for tonight.”

Bloom’s reaction is precious: she actually gasps, and her face flushes this pretty dusty pink color. “You’d… let me do… _that_ to you?”

“Sure would,” Icy says, leaning over to kiss her temple. “I love it when you’re mean during sex. It’s so hot. You should do it more often.”

But even on the rare occasion Bloom is mean during sex, Icy is still Icy. As awful as those _Fifty Shades of Grey_ movies were (Darcy and Stella bonded over them and forced not only their husbands but their _same sex couple_ best friends to watch them, too), Icy can’t help but relate to that line at the very end of the third installment: even when she’s being submissive, she is very much _topping from the bottom_.

Bloom’s eyes darken further. “Duly noted, wife.”

Icy leans over again and kisses her on the lips this time. It feels like a declaration of ceasefire.

“Let’s save some of these _getting along_ vibes for in front of Sav, shall we? She asked if we’re fighting.”

Bloom’s smile drains away. “What’d you say?”

Icy shrugs. “No.”

The redhead gives her a look. “She’s smarter than you give her credit for, Icy.”

“Mmm, I dunno about that. She still believes you just think short nails are cuter and have imposed this style choice on me.”

Bloom rolls her eyes with disbelief at _that_ memory. “I still cannot understand why you’d tell her I don’t allow you to have long nails in the first place.”

Icy chuckles. “Don’t worry. Unless she turns out to like girls when she’s older, she may never get it.”

Bloom only shakes her head. “I should get some sleep. I have to go back tomorrow.”

With her fingertip, Icy traces a light circle pattern over her wife’s bruise. “Correction: you should stay home tomorrow, let this heal.”

“Are you forgetting the part where you agreed it’s important other parents like us?”

“Then I’ll go.”

There’s a pause, and then Bloom turns over, wincing as the movement causes her shoulder to act up. But beyond her reaction to the pain, the expression on her face says she _had_ to make full-frontal eye contact for this one. “Babe. First of all, you have work. What happened to 110%?”

“I’ll say you’re sick,” Icy says easily. “HR would _love_ to hear how Salazar kept one of his _diverse_ employees from winning the trip because she stayed home to take care of her wife. And I have paid time off saved up, so _I_ won’t even be hurting our finances.”

Bloom plows right on, ignoring her lighthearted jab. “Second—you and _Riven_? It’s difficult enough for _me_ to get along with him, but _you_ …”

“It’s perfect: we don’t flake, and I get to make the King of Sulk cry for _this_.” She gestures toward her wife’s injury.

Bloom’s expression hangs somewhere between apprehension and defeat. “I do not think you should try to make the father of your best friend’s children cry in front of a bunch of little kids.”

Icy kisses her lips again, but this time it’s quick and seals finality into existence. “It’ll be fine. Rest.”

She shuts off their main light and climbs under the covers and that’s that: Bloom doesn’t have to go tomorrow, and Icy does.

 _Joy_.

She clarifies Bloom has an alarm set for tomorrow, and then she plays with her wife’s hair in silence as she seeks sleep. As _Bloom_ seeks it, that is. Icy knows she herself will not be sleeping for a while—she may be good at boundaries when it comes to her professional life vs. her personal life, but she is horrid at shutting off her brain for the night when she has a lot going on. Besides, tomorrow is going to suck whether she’s well-rested or not.

But she’ll make the best of it. For Bloom, for Sav.

After a while, Icy grabs her phone and types up a quick self-care regime for her wife and texts it to her. Then she (carefully) wraps her wife up in her arms and enjoys the even, sated breathing of her other half until eventually sleep takes her, too.

* * *

Icy wakes up to her wife’s fingers inside her and her tongue returning last night’s favor.

A moan escapes her and she leans forward just a tad, causing Bloom to realize she’s awake. They lock eyes, blue on blue, arctic on aqua, and Icy can clearly read her wife’s current state solely from her gaze: she is passionate, aroused, and on a mission.

Icy loves her wife.

Bloom uses her left hand to push the hem of Icy’s T-shirt up higher on her body. She caresses one of her breasts, trails her fingers down over her ribs, over the ice blue gem resting in her naval…

Her hand drifts over to the side of the mattress and Icy seizes the opportunity: she links her right hand with Bloom’s left, intertwines their fingers together. Bloom’s wedding ring presses against Icy’s skin, a physical reminder she is _hers_ , all hers—

Icy throws her free arm over her mouth to muffle herself as her release hits. Bloom presses her elbow into her wife’s hip to keep her pressed into the bed as she (much more kindly than Icy did last night) licks her wife through her release. Once she’s done, Bloom gently removes her fingers and “casually” cleans them with her tongue. Icy feels her eyes go black with lust.

When the redhead is finished with her little show, she innocently smiles up at her wife. “Good morning.”

“Yes,” Icy pants, “it is.”

Bloom laughs, but the sound is cut short when she tries to stand and twists the wrong way. She sucks in air through her teeth.

And then Icy remembers.

“Hey, you’re supposed to be taking it easy, remember? Lying down all day.”

“I know.” Bloom grabs some clothes from her side of the dresser then carefully walks back to her side of the bed. She sits on the edge of the mattress as she clothes herself. “But I could hardly let you go all day sexually frustrated from last night.”

Icy smirks at her. There may be some truth to that, but she also knows her wife too well: waking her to sexual pleasure was Bloom’s way of reclaiming some control after Icy so totally and completely dominated her last night.

And Icy is not mad about it.

“How considerate of you.” She rolls over onto her side so she’s facing her wife. The redhead has finished dressing and is lying on her side of the bed now. “What happened to the alarm you set?”

“My shoulder woke me up early so I turned it off.” Bloom hooks a strand of white-blue hair behind her wife’s ear. “I figured you wouldn’t mind waking up to me instead.”

Icy _loves_ her wife.

“Mmm, indeed I didn’t.”

“I also saw the tight regime you created for me.” Bloom cups the side of her wife’s face. “You know how bad I suck at time management; you really expect me to stick to that without you here to kick my ass into doing it?”

Icy hums softly, shuts her eyes, leans into the touch of her wife’s palm against her skin. “I wish I could stay home and take care of you, baby, I do.”

“I know. I’m just teasing.” Bloom takes Icy’s hand in hers and kisses her wedding ring, rubs her thumb over her wife’s thumb. “I’ll be fine. But you can put lotion on my back again tonight if it makes you feel better.”

Icy smiles, eyes still closed. “Liked that, did you?”

“ _Loved_ that,” Bloom affirms. She kisses her wife, slow and languid, and all Icy wants to do is stay in this bed and do that all day, but she can’t.

She reluctantly breaks the kiss. “Well. I should get up…” It’s a process: roll over, place both feet on the floor, stand. She runs a hand through her hair and forces herself to take one step after another in the direction of their master bathroom. “Start getting ready for the _joyous_ day that awaits me…”

“The joyous day that awaits you where you _don’t_ kill Riven,” Bloom says to her back.

“No promises…”

*

In the shower, Icy adjusts her perspective of the day.

Honestly, the situation could be worse. Some time away from the bullshit at work won’t kill her. Truthfully, it might be just the break she needs to be on her A-game with the client from hell. And it makes her feel good to know that by doing this, she is, in a way, taking care of her wife—this way Bloom won’t be overexerting herself. And not just physically; her wife will save tons of mental energy not having to be around Riven.

However, Icy also knows how bad Bloom is at time management—her work style has always been chaotic, and it was made even more so when they put in her in-home art studio. She decides she’ll have to set some reminders for her wife to stay on track with her _tight regime_.

Icy finishes her shower, dries her hair, dresses for the day—tank top and Soffe shorts it is. By the time she goes downstairs, Bloom has already relocated to the couch for the day. Icy mentions in passing that they can order takeout tonight.

Then she calls off work for today and possibly the rest of the week due to “spousal injury.” She can tell Salazar is annoyed and trying to mask it, but she’s not concerned this will impact her chances of winning the trip or surpassing him in the field; their employee contract has her covered. She smiles at the thought of her boss trying to find literally anyone else who is willing to work with her disaster of a client until she gets back. If nothing else, the incompetency of her peers will make her look better than she already does.

Icy decides upon cinnamon toast for her and Sav this morning. While the bread is in the toaster, she throws some fruit and milk in the blender—Bloom is obsessed with breakfast smoothies lately—and meal-preps her wife’s lunch.

She delivers Bloom’s smoothie and swipes her phone while she’s at it. Icy and Sav eat their toast in the kitchen while Icy creates some e-reminders for her wife: take more pills, remember to hydrate, eat your lunch… She returns Bloom’s phone to her when she drops off a bottle of water and her pills for the day.

“Thanks, baby,” Bloom says, playing with the straw in her half-gone smoothie. “Could you bring me a couple pencils and a blank canvas before you leave? Oh, and my art glasses?”

Icy gives her a look.

Before she can say anything, Bloom says, “I can safely draw _for fun_ while sitting here, I promise.”

So Icy agrees to stop by Bloom’s studio before she leaves.

She goes upstairs and lathers herself and Sav with sunscreen. Then she washes her hands and braids Sav’s hair while her daughter chatters away, telling her about the non-catastrophic parts of her first day of camp and the dream she had last night where she was a warrior riding into battle on her unicorn steed.

And then Icy does her own hair.

Often times these days, she’ll wear it down—Bloom commented very shortly into their relationship how gorgeous she looks with her hair down; she confessed she was mystified the first time she saw her that way—but not today. Today she puts her hair up in her previously signature high ponytail.

She does this for a few reasons, one being she’s going to be in the sun for hours, but more importantly, this is a power move. She wears her hair up when she’s presenting particularly tough court cases, and “coincidentally” 99% of the time her client wins. It intimidates people, whether it’s how her hair makes her look taller or what. But the most important reason she’s chosen to wear her hair like this today is because The Ponytail was her signature look back in high school, so she knows it’ll remind Riven of _the_ _good old days_.

Riven doesn’t like her now, but he _hated_ her in high school. He was a lowly sophomore inexplicably banging the hottest senior girl at Black Lagoon High, and he didn’t understand that Darcy had more important things to do than call him back within five minutes every time he wanted some attention, more important things like ruling the school alongside her best friend and planning how they were going to dominate at Thorn Valley University. He resented Icy for taking up Darcy’s time and taking priority over him in Darcy’s life. Not to mention Icy regularly made it clear she didn’t find him good enough for her best friend, not only because of his age but because of who he was as a person.

And then Darcy dumped him toward the end of the school year and Riven found a way to make it Icy’s fault, something about brainwashing Darcy with her cult-leader-like behavior, as if Darcy was incapable of making good decisions on her own. Icy just grinned and made it a point to throw their friendship in the reject’s face for the remainder of the school year.

But alas, after graduation and several years of unnecessary pining and jealousy games, Darcy ended up going back to him, and they had an exhaustive on/off thing until she fell pregnant with Raylee. Icy loves the girl now, but for a while she resented her—the seal that stuck her (and Darcy) with the maroon-haired moron forever.

It’s Bloom’s turn to give Icy a look when her wife returns with the art supplies and some snacks… and The Ponytail. Bloom met Riven in college (he didn’t _go_ , of course, but Bloom was around Icy and Icy was around Darcy who so unfortunately elected to be around Riven), and she immediately disliked him, as well, but other than that _one time_ she dumped a drink on him for getting a little too drunk and coming onto her, she doesn’t take bold steps to upset him like Icy is doing right now.

Icy kisses her, says, “Love you!” and calls out to Sav that it’s time to go. She can practically feel her wife shaking her head behind her as their daughter also gives her a kiss then follows Icy out the door.

* * *

The drive from their house to the elementary school takes ten minutes.

Their house is just on the line that makes them qualify as being in the Gardenia school district, though they themselves do not live in Gardenia. Bloom had no desire to stay in the place she grew up, and Icy wasn’t too keen on it herself. Factor in the moment Icy left for college was the last time she set foot in her own home town, and the wives decided to go house-hunting in the areas that _neighbored_ Gardenia. They settled on Chrysalis, a nicer, more upscale suburb in the county.

Riven, on the other hand, practically lives next door to Gardenia Elementary (another reason Darcy _suggested_ he join the school board). That _should_ mean he’ll beat them there, but knowing Riven…

“Is Mama going to die?”

They’ve only been driving for three minutes and _that_ is the question that pulls Icy out of her thoughts.

The pale-haired woman looks at her daughter like she’s grown a second head. ‘ _Smarter than I give her credit for’ my ass._ “Of course not, Savannah! She’s bruised, but it’s not that serious. Why would you think she’d _die_?”

“I thought I heard her screaming last night,” Sav confesses.

Icy bites the inside of her cheek to keep a straight face. _Oh._

“She’s fine, babe. Her shoulder’s just gonna be sore for a while.” When she stops shaking with silent laughter, she adds, “Don’t tell her you heard that, okay? She’d be upset.” _With me._

Sav seems both somber and relieved as she softly replies, “Okay, Mom.”

_Ahh, children…_

*

 _Speaking of children…_ Icy thinks when she pulls into the parking lot.

They arrive at the elementary school to a drop-off zone of Subarus and Hummers, of kids with cleats and water bottles running down to the field to be led by an incompetent moron for the day. Honestly, Icy's surprised this many parents allowed their kids to come back. Maybe the kids didn't tell their parents about their first day with their _wonderful_ temp coach, but that only serves as an excuse for the parents who weren't here volunteering. The ones who were saw him in action and still came back.

In any case, there are a lot of children here. Bloom brought these kids healthy, homemade popsicles yesterday. Icy, on the other hand, cringes at the sweaty sight of them.

She pulls into an empty spot and parks their KIA Sorento. They got this vehicle two years ago when Bloom’s Ford Fusion died. She’d had it since the summer before she went away to college, used what little money she’d saved up from working in her adoptive mother’s flower shop to buy it used and off of Craigslist. It was cheap, but it was Bloom’s labor of love, and Icy tried not to show her elation when the thing finally, _finally_ bit the dust.

Icy, on the other hand, has had her KIA Forte forever. She got it from a local dealership during her second year at Thorn Valley U. They offer a loyalty discount, so when the Fusion died, the wives spent a few weekends browsing the dealership. Bloom really wanted something that screamed _family_ (read: she wanted a minivan), which Icy was fine with, so once a decision was agreed upon, they made a day of it: Icy took off work on a Monday, they signed for the Sorento, then they drove to Gardenia Elementary to pick up Sav as a surprise—she was excited about their new vehicle, but she didn’t know what day they were getting it.

Now, Bloom drives her to and from GES in it nearly every day of the school year.

Icy and Sav get out of the car and make a beeline for the soccer field. The July heat is already making Icy’s tank top cling uncomfortably to her back.

Riven is sitting in a foldable chair, unsubtly removed from the warm ups the other parent volunteers are leading the kids through (shocker). Icy stares at him through her sunglasses until he looks her way.

The Ponytail works. She actually watches the life drain from Riven’s already miserable face when he sees her.

It fills her with joy.

“Oh, _no_ ,” he groans.

“Oh, yes,” she says with a smile as her daughter departs for warm ups. Icy takes her time approaching Riven, leisurely pushing her sunglasses up on her head as she gets closer and closer. She figures he’ll find her drawing this out obnoxious. “I am what you get for putting my wife through hell yesterday.”

Riven makes a face. “Icy, I would hardly call a goal post tapping her on the shoulder ‘hell’. And I don’t see how it’s _my_ fault she didn’t get out of the way before—”

Instead of feeding his refusal to accept responsibility for anything ever, Icy plows right on ahead with something she knows will get to him. “But don’t worry. I’m sure _she_ won’t hold it against you. I made her feel so good last night, I’m sure she doesn’t even remember your blunder.”

Riven looks like he’s going to throw up. It’s somehow never occurred to him that he could easily talk about _his_ sex life with Darcy to make _Icy_ nauseous in return. Or maybe it has but he figures mentioning his sexual prowess would only result in Icy telling him how inadequate he is for her best friend, as she used to do all the time in casual conversation.

That was years ago, though, before he and Darcy had two daughters and a marriage certificate to bind them together for life. Icy’s done good about keeping certain comments to herself (read: to Bloom) since then, not out of respect for Riven— _please_ —but out of respect for Darcy’s family.

Still, there are other ways to torture him. Like this, for example. The expression on his face is _priceless_.

“You’re disgusting,” he tells her.

“Yes, you are. So.” Icy takes a seat in the foldable chair beside him and slaps her hands against the arm rests. “What is it I’m doing all day, exactly? Help me out here.”

Riven makes an exasperated sound in the middle of taking a swig of his Gatorade. Well, at least whatever he’s drinking is in a Gatorade bottle. Icy wouldn’t be shocked if he’s shooting absinthe in front of the vast array of children he’s presently responsible for. _This entire situation is such a joke…_

“Why did you even come, Icy? Don’t you have a rapist to get out of jail or something?”

“Your understanding of the legal system is _profound_ —”

“Seriously, even though Bloom signed up, this is still volunteer, and as a volunteer, _you’re_ supposed to be helping _me_.”

Icy blinks an insufferable amount of times and smiles angelically. “I’m here to prove I’m a _good person_.”

Riven snorts and chokes on his Gatorade, and then one of the kids pops a soccer ball his way, except his reflexes suck so it hits him in the face, and his Gatorade spills all over his wife beater.

Icy laughs so hard she can’t catch a breath to chide, _What was that about my wife ‘not getting out of the way’ in time?_

Comeuppance has already _kicked in_ , it seems.

* * *

It’s just past two in the afternoon when Bloom signs her name—Bloom Sparx-Whisperia—at the bottom of the sketch she’s been working on since this morning, sealing it as finished. It’s her and Icy’s hands entwined, just the way they were this morning.

Shortly after Icy and Sav left, Bloom got to work. She curled up on the couch and sketched the lines of her and her wife’s intertwined hands to the background noise of Benson and Stabler being a badass team—she’s convinced TV networks play reruns of the old _SVU_ episodes (also known as the best episodes) all throughout the day precisely for people in her position. Once the main outline was done, she went back in with some shading and some smudging, taking breaks for things like eating the lunch her wife was so kind to prepare for her, and now the sketch is complete.

She takes off the glasses she wears for close-up work and holds the piece away from herself for examination. She decides she’ll start painting it tomorrow—or at least that’s the plan. She’s been good all day, doing what Icy wanted with the painkillers and the lying around, and it’s paying off: her shoulder isn’t hurting nearly as much as it did the day before. She might be game to go back as a volunteer tomorrow, but she can’t imagine Icy will be on board with that. At the same time, however, how today goes for _Icy_ will also probably play a role in how Icy feels about that.

Bloom thinks about what colors she’ll need for this piece. She included Icy’s hair fanned out on the mattress in the upper right corner, so she’ll need some more of the gorgeous white-blue color she created specifically for portraits of her wife.

The redhead smiles at the thought. She loves drawing her wife. The very first time she saw her with her hair down, she _had_ to draw her—and this was before they were together, before Bloom consciously realized that her total lack of attraction to men was coupled with a very real attraction to women. She just knew Icy was so breath-takingly beautiful, she had to create art of such walking, talking art.

Now, said walking, talking art is her wife.

To this day, that first piece is her favorite one she’s done of Icy. She has it framed in her studio near her portraits of Savannah.

Bloom loves drawing her daughter, as well. She paints a new portrait of Sav every year for her birthday, has done so ever since they adopted her. This year she’s planning to use the soccer field as her backdrop. She didn’t manage to get a good photo yesterday, but she’s still got a couple months—their family’s birthdays go in a row: Bloom’s is in August, Icy’s in September, Sav’s in October.

She sets her current canvas on the couch cushion farthest away from her and reaches for her phone. There are no new messages from her wife, which could mean anything, really. Icy’s checked in on her a couple times, but she hasn’t given any updates on soccer, and Bloom hasn’t been brave enough to ask. But it’s been long enough that she decides to brace herself and check in.

 **Bloom:** Are you behaving?

The response doesn’t take long.

 **Icy:** Of course :)

Attached is a photo of her and Riven standing on the soccer field. She’s grinning; he’s scowling at the camera. Bloom zooms in and realizes there are red stains on his white sleeveless top, along with a red mark on his face, like someone hit him with a soccer ball. She can’t help but laugh.

While she’s sending back an eye-roll emoji with a red heart, another new message pops in, this one from her best friend.

 **Stella:** How’s Savvy’s soccer camp going??

Bloom smiles. Stella may have had plans to get married when she was twenty-five, but babies did not come for much longer. She and Brandon had extensive fertility problems. Bloom had suggested the name of the adoption agency she and Icy used, but Stella really wanted her kids to be genetically hers, wanted to see what a mixture of her and Brandon together would look like.

After years of treatments, the blonde finally got what she wanted and more: she became pregnant _with twins_. Jaxon and Braxley. Bloom had begged her to name them something normal, or to at least _spell_ their names in a normal manner, but Stella was Stella, and Brandon was just so excited to be a dad, he let his wife pick the names without question. The boys just turned two back in May.

Back when the couple had been struggling to conceive, though, Stella spent a lot of time bonding with Savannah, or _Savvy_ as she called her (Icy made a face the first time she heard that one). On more than one occasion, when she and Brandon were babysitting and took her to the park or the mall, strangers mistook Sav as their own biological daughter. She looked like she could be. Bloom knew how happy the assumption made Stella, even if the blonde would never admit it. Bloom wasn’t bothered by it, though. She and Icy had their reasons for choosing adoption, and Sav not sharing their blood or appearances didn’t make her any less theirs. Of that she was deeply convicted.

Anyway. Once Stella became a mom, she became busier with her own life, between caring for the twins, selling ProsperFlare products on Facebook, and teaching Lamaze classes three times a week (she was such a good student when she took them herself, she was asked to teach after she’d had some time to recuperate from giving birth). Still, though, she makes it a point to take Sav shopping for a new outfit here and there, and she always makes sure to pencil in biweekly lunch outings with Bloom.

Icy isn’t such a fan of these catch up sessions, as Stella has been known to occasionally make ProsperFlare sales pitches between the main course and dessert. But she buys Bloom’s paintings, so Bloom figures it’s only fair to buy an overpriced beauty product or two here and there.

Besides, Icy doesn’t _completely_ hate the situation. She can’t help but smirk every time she discovers her wife has made a new purchase from the disdained MLM company.

Stella would be mortified if she knew they really picked _the name of her employer_ for their safeword.

Bloom bites her lip as she types her reply.

 **Bloom:** You’d have to ask Icy… She went today.

Stella calls before Bloom has even set her phone down.

She answers, laughing. “Yes?”

“You sent _Icy_ to go spend the day with _Riven_?” Stella demands. Bloom can hear crying in the background. Jaxon. It has to be; Braxley never cries. “Do you _want_ a blood bath?”

“I didn’t send her. She insisted.”

“WHAT?!”

So Bloom explains about her injury and how Icy wanted her to rest… after _dealing with_ her attitude last night.

“Okay, _ew_ ,” Stella says emphatically. “But—OMG! You’ve _got_ to keep me updated on the drama. Does Darcy know?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“OM _G_ ,” Stella repeats, probably texting Darcy as they speak. Bloom can only imagine how many times Darcy will have to talk about this before the day is up.

“Go get your screaming child,” the redhead teases.

“Wait! Is Savvy having fun at soccer camp? Surely she told you what you missed when she got home yesterday.”

“Why don’t you call her tonight and ask her yourself? She’d love to hear from you.”

During their high-frequency bonding days, Auntie Stella was Sav’s favorite. But when Stella became a mom to two boys, she had less time for her not-really-adopted-daughter. It was hard on Savannah at first, but she adjusted. She loves the twins now, loves visiting them and being a “big cousin”.

“Ooh, what time?”

“She gets home at six, but maybe wait until seven.”

“Will do. I’ll be home; evening Lamaze classes have been suspended until further notice. The board is still upset about _the Brenda situation_ ,” Stella says, an eye roll loud and clear in her voice.

Bloom has heard about _the Brenda situation_ nearly as many times as she’s heard about how Riven isn’t good enough for Darcy. And Brenda only happened last week.

“Ohh, that dang Brenda…”

“ _Right?_ ” Stella completely misses her light mocking. “Anyway—listen to your wife and rest up, girl! Talk to you later.”

“Bye, Stel.”

But Bloom has been resting all day. She could use a shower, plus she noticed Icy did laundry last night (another thing she isn’t supposed to have to do during the week) so she’d really like to get that put away for her. Not to mention she’s thinking about dinner tonight…

* * *

“Bloom, we’re home!” Icy calls when she and Sav walk through the front door that evening.

“I know.” Bloom smiles over at her from the stove. She’s stirring a pot of boiling pasta. “I saw the Sorento pull in.”

Icy’s face falls. “What are you doing? I said we could get—”

“I know, but…” Bloom sets the spoon aside, turns off the burner, and drains the pasta. “I wanted to. I was good all day, and I’m feeling much better. Plus, I had some time to think, and… I decided I wanted to make up for my part in your lame day yesterday.” She walks over to her wife and kisses her chastely.

Icy shakes her head but plays with her wife’s hair in response, a sure-fire sign she is not going to argue. “You didn’t have to do that. I think I evened out the score rather well last night.”

“How’d you do that?” Sav asks, removing her dirty soccer cleats at the door.

“Savannah, can you go wash up and set the table, please?” Bloom asks, lightly glaring at her chuckling wife.

“Sure, Mama. When will it be ready?” She’s already running up the stairs.

“Soon!” And then, once she’s out of earshot, Bloom whips toward Icy and whispers, “So? Tell me. What happened?”

“Well, let’s see…” Icy removes her shoes and undoes her hair from its ponytail. “I successfully made Riven miserable without killing him. Gracie and Sienna’s mom _loves_ us—you for making those now famous sugar-free popsicles; me for being such a wonderful, supportive wife. She wants to treat us to brunch next Saturday, by the way.”

Bloom’s jaw drops adorably. “Really?”

“Really. Oh, and during lunch, I called my dear Darcy so we could have a little chat.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning my best friend has so graciously agreed to have her favorite niece over for a weekend-long sleepover. Sav’ll go home with Riven on Friday so she and D can do ‘twin things’. It’s the least she could do after the trouble her loser husband caused. We get the whole house to ourselves for two whole days and nights. Think of all the fun we can have…” She doesn’t elaborate, but she knows what thoughts are going through Bloom’s mind right now. After all, looking forward to a weekend filled with things like taking a bath with her wife, making love to her wife, and just generally spending time with her wife is what got her through the second half of soccer camp today.

Her wife’s eyes sparkle. “That sounds perfect, baby. And you know… the hypothetical Bahamas are quite a way away… If you’re up for it,” she says lowly, straddling her wife on the kitchen chair and hooking Icy’s stray strands of hair behind her ears, “maybe I can ‘get back at you’ for last night this weekend.” She nips her wife’s bottom lip and makes an inquiring sound.

Icy’s blood spikes and rushes south, both at the feel of her wife’s body pressing against hers, and at the rare assertion of dominance her wife is teasing. She really did marry the hottest woman alive. “Yes,” she hisses the confirmation. Yes, yes, _oh yes_.

The oven timer dings.

Bloom smiles and quickly climbs off her wife when Savannah’s footsteps hit the stairs. “Perfect timing, babe,” she tells their daughter. (Icy doesn’t agree in the slightest.) “Garlic bread’s done.”

Sav sets the table while Icy tries to reorient herself for an _in front of their daughter_ setting.

It doesn’t take too long. The family of three sits down and eats together. Sav, who is very excited, chatters through dinner about what she’s going to do at her sleepover with Aunt Darcy this weekend. Icy can tell her wife is distracted, though, and that knowledge makes her smile.

Stella calls at seven on the dot. Sav happily takes the call in the living room while Bloom promises Icy she doesn’t have to help clear the table; she is all good. So Icy goes upstairs and washes the sunscreen off her body while her family does their thing downstairs.

She changes into another oversized T-shirt, brushes her teeth, brushes her hair.

She’s texting Darcy when she realizes Bloom is conducting Sav’s nighttime routine. She could protest, but she is married to the most stubborn woman alive, and she just spent the entire day with Riven; she is not up for anything mentally challenging right now.

Icy goes back down to the first floor of their house (which is now dimly lit for the night) to see if any laundry needs done, but it looks like Bloom did that, too. She doesn’t want Bloom overexerting herself right now, but for her sanity’s sake, she decides to pretend her wife was very careful while she took care of their towels.

And then she laughs as a memory resurfaces in her mind. It was a few years ago, and Bloom had just put Sav to bed. Icy was downstairs rinsing her plate from her reheated dinner when Bloom returned, came up behind her, and started kissing her neck. They were both in the mood to do it somewhere other than their bedroom, but they didn’t want their daughter to overhear. As a solution, Bloom unceremoniously threw a load of clean towels back in the washing machine and put them on the spin cycle to create noise. The wives had sex on top of the contraption while it spun and spun, laughing at their own ridiculousness as they did so.

Icy thinks about that in comparison to the weekend that awaits them. She thinks about how they’re going to have the entire house to themselves, how they’ll be able to fuck wherever they want, be as loud as they want…

Her eyes drift over to the living room, and a flipped-over canvas catches her attention on the sofa. She goes to it and turns it right-side up with the intention of taking it to Bloom’s studio.

But then she sees what the piece is _of_ , and her breath catches in her throat when she realizes this is from this morning—Bloom’s angle of this morning.

It’s their hands linked together on their mattress, Icy’s hair in the background, Bloom’s zircon crystal wedding ring possessively declaring the woman she is pleasing is _hers_.

Icy looks down at her own matching ring. Zircon crystal set in a silver band. The inscription on the inside is the same—their names along with their anniversary date, the letters and numbers mirrored. Icy hates taking off her wedding ring, but she’ll do it occasionally just to look at the inscription’s imprint on her skin. On occasion, Bloom will take her ring off to paint, and Icy will study the imprint in her wife’s skin. It makes her heart stir.

Their names and their wedding date, forever marking their bodies, just as they have marked each other’s souls.

“Heyyy.”

Icy looks up at the whiny tone.

Bloom is descending the staircase with a frown on her face. “You weren’t supposed to see that yet.”

Icy is thrown for a minute before she remembers—the sketch.

“It’s beautiful,” she says quietly, holding the canvas out for her wife to take. Like she thought last night, she really doesn’t take Bloom’s work lightly. It amazes Icy how she sees these vivid images in her mind and recreates them, makes them come to life on the canvas. She loves that her wife found the image of what she did to her this morning so inspiring she decided to make art of it.

Bloom sets the sketch on the coffee table and says, “It’ll be more beautiful once it’s painted.”

Icy pauses. “Which won’t be until your shoulder’s healed.”

“Uhh, sure.”

“ _Bloom_.” Icy’s seen her at work before; her painting posture is horrendous.

“Let’s not talk about that right now,” Bloom says, taking a seat next to her wife on the couch. “Let’s talk about something positive, okay?”

Icy gives her a look. “Conversation: averted. _For now_.”

“Great!” Bloom says brightly. “So. I was thinking—I want to kick off our romantic weekend with that dish you had at Darcy’s birthday dinner last year. You know, the bourbon chicken with the mushrooms and the shrimp. You were raving about how good it was. I figured I could make that for when you get home on Friday.”

“That sounds good,” Icy says, making a mental note to figure out what she’ll cook for Bloom on Saturday and Sunday. “You’ll have to really rest up for that, though.” Here she playfully cuts her eyes at her wife seeing as they just agreed to not talk about it.

For her response, Bloom settles on, “I really am feeling much better than I did last night. Your regime is already working.”

Icy hums softly and takes her wife’s hand in hers. “Bourbon chicken would go great with that French wine you like so much. I’ll pick up a bottle on the way home on Friday.”

The smile Bloom gives her is dazzlingly beautiful. “I’d love that.”

Icy kisses her affectionately then tilts her head back against the sofa. And then Bloom leans her head against Icy’s shoulder, and they just sit there in silence for some indefinable amount of time. It’s nice.

Eventually, Bloom speaks.

“So, if I have to ‘really rest up’ for Friday, does that mean you want to go back the rest of the week?”

Icy makes a face. “Want to? Or will I? Because I will. It might kill me to be civil-ish with Riven, but…” She looks at her wife and raises her eyebrows deviously. “At least he knows what we’ll be getting up to all weekend.”

Bloom rolls her pretty aqua eyes. “Alright…” She pushes herself up off the couch and holds out her hand. “Come on, wife. Take me to bed.”

Icy accepts her hand and stands and allows her wife to lead her toward the stairs. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Rub lotion on my back.”

“Of course.”

“Trust that I won’t strain my shoulder painting tomorrow.”

“Pushing it.”

Bloom laughs softly and gives her wife’s hand a squeeze as they climb the stairs.

The only thought in Icy’s head at that moment is one that is very much reciprocated by her other half:

She loves her wife.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments & kudos are very much appreciated <3


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